


A Pumpkin Latte With A Dynamite Lady

by anenglishwolf



Category: The Big Bang Theory (TV)
Genre: Art, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Drawing, F/M, Missing Scene, Neil Diamond, Polyamory, Polyandry, discussions of poly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4138803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anenglishwolf/pseuds/anenglishwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from Season 5:Episode 10, The Flaming Spittoon Acquisition.  Stuart and Amy are on their date and at the coffeeshop.  Sheldon is far from Stuart's mind, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pour me a drink, and I'll tell you some lies

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title from Mr Neil Diamond's 'Love On The Rocks'.

“Pumpkin latte, Americano with a shot of hazelnut syrup, almond-cherry macaroon and a ham and olive melt with no peppers!” The loud, sharp cry cuts through the coffeeshop chatter to its target.

“I believe that's our order,” Amy says, from the corner of the coffee-shop where she and Stuart are hovering, after paying at the cash register. When they settle into a corner booth, she checks her phone. The twitchy little smirk at the corner of her mouth is delightful. 

How has he managed to score a date with such a bewitching Circe of the bio labs, a Helen without Paris hanging around to spoil everything? (Currently.) Marie Curie meets Mata Hari? This seductive princess of the primate cages, this Cleopatra of the neuroscientific Nile, rolled up in a labcoat and goggles for want of a Persian carpet... He's getting carried away. He clears his throat. “Interesting developments?” he asks. “Lab updates?”

Amy Farrah Fowler tucks her phone away, looking undeniably smug. “No. Just Sheldon, going absolutely crazy about our date. Eight messages, a voicemail and four Facebook entries about his completely satisfactory and fulfilling plans for the evening, assembling a three-quarters life-size Wookie model. Poor man, he's a little transparent. Methinks the scientific genius doth protest too much.”

And Stuart suddenly feels a little sorry for Sheldon. But what do you expect, tangling with the Zuleika Dobson of the MIT neuroscience labs? If a moth falls in love with a lamp, it's gonna get burned, that right? 

Maybe he's a moth, too. In some alternate world, he feels the grey and dusty little wings at his back, flapping feebly, earnestly seeking out the warmth, comfort and financial stability of tenured feminine company. This Americano is the cheapest thing on the drinks list, and it's still gouged his snacky allowance for the week. “Is he mad at me?” he ventures. “Are the rest of the guys going to take me out for taking you out?” 

Images of the nerd wrecking crew ambushing and debagging him out the back of the comic-book store flit fever-dreamily across the fitful broken-down projector-screen of his mind. (Even the contents of his mind are broken-down and second-rate, in his mind.) “You think they'll break my legs for messing with Sheldon's dame?” he asks. “Because my health insurance is expired, and if I had to pay for it out of pocket then it'd be bye-bye comic-book store.”

And this warmly enigmatic lady pats his knee and smiles slightly, like she thinks he's just kidding. 

The place that they've picked for a pre-movie beverage couldn't be more hipstery if it – well, it's pretty try-hard already, tell the truth. Damn, there's even a real vintage old Wurlitzer jukebox in the tiled corner with the genuine sixties' ad for malted soda. When she spots it, Amy's over there in a trice, and she pores through the song titles with a little-girl excited absorption that gives him warm fuzzies in his pigeon-chest. He's on an actual date, with a real live girl. And she's having a good time, too. Whod'a thunk it.

“Come on!” she calls out, beckoning him. “You pick something! Oh my _God,_ there's Neil Diamond! 'Cracklin' Rosie'!”

But he shakes his head, happy just to witness her excitement. “You pick something for me, I'm sure I'll love it,” he calls back. And surreptitiously he pulls a small sketchbook out of his mini-backpack, and his nice Caran D'ache 2B pencil. Fifty seconds, and the opening bars of _I Am, I Said_ roll out, and Hush Puppie'd feet everywhere amongst the forest of ironwork chairlegs begin to tap gently. Amy's transfixed, like she's in a dream as it begins. Her moves and gestures are so slow as she begins to sing along, but she only mouths the words. Her eyes are closed.

_”...I got an emptiness deep inside_  
_And I've tried  
But it won't let me go...”_

It clearly speaks to her. Stuart guesses, to him too. But he's too busy drawing to brood much on it, and when it closes out, rolling chiming notes reaching out and breaking every heart they can grasp, he has a gift for his best girl. Well, his only girl, right now, tonight.

He keeps it out of view, cagily angled behind the sundae and drinks list, as she slips back into the booth and smiles at him dreamily. _Love On The Rocks_ is already beginning its ominous intro. And the strip light glints off her spectacles, as Diamond sings soft. He sings about love and loss and the dawning of cynicism, birthed from one graze and abrasion too many, at the hands of those supposed to love you. 

It's like he's singing out of the pages of Stuart's journal. 

But this is a _happy evening_ , and to reinforce that, Stuart whips the drawing out and flickers it before Amy's eyes. She squeals. It's adorable. 

“Oh my God! Stuart, is that me? Did you draw that?” She makes grabby hands with her sizeable mitts, and he teases her with it, out of reach. Or he does, until she kicks him firmly in the shin as a useful and effective distraction, and takes it from him as firmly and efficiently as the school bully used to extract his lunch money. 

Pretty impressive, really. Stuart would not admit to being a little turned on. He wouldn't _admit_ to it.

But he gives up the drawing gracefully – since the option's been taken away from him. And it's worth it, well worth the effort and the skill and labour expended, and losing a fight to a girl and the ache and sore glow of his shin which has always been vulnerable and sensitive. Amy _makes_ it worth it. Her face glows as warm as his shin, as she turns the drawing this way and that, getting the light angled on it better, examining fine details for more fulsome admiration.

“Oh, Stuart,” she says softly, and she doesn't even look at him. Doesn't look at him, because she's so caught and wrapped up in the picture that she transparently can't tear her eyes away from it. So that's good. “It's so beautiful. You are so talented.”

And Stuart has to fight the urge to click his fingers, order a dirty martini (which would surprise the barista) and smugly examine his cufflinks. He feels halfway Rat Pack and halfway Bond, and this is shaping up to be a _good date._ When was the last good date he had? Sometime last century maybe, literally. 

And they're opposite each other in the booth, but Amy shuffles her backside around a little to sit next to him, up close with her head nearly on his shoulder. It's just to show him the drawing, his own drawing, at different angles, to point out things she specially likes and coo, and tell him he has a _special gift_ and stroke him some more, metaphorically. (He would not mind some non-metaphorical stroking, but this is good too.) But it still makes his heart go _boop-a-doop_ in his chest, and he feels like maybe somewhere there should be bluebirds singing. 

It's probably the moment to try for a kiss, because it's so promising, and if he waits till the end of the night his nerves are just going to shred his courage into tiny pieces. But when he takes a breath, and angles his head a little more towards her as she's still pointing and making _oochy-coochy-clever-Stuart_ noises, maybe he's signalling his intentions up a little too obviously. 'Cause Amy stills a little as he looks at her profile, feeling a tenderness that says _hey maybe this is the one, loverboy._ And she smiles down at the drawing in her hands – of a wide-eyed excited Amy, an Amy who hears the music of Neil Diamond echoing through the heavenly spheres, bumping off satellites and serenading the choirs of the angels as she bumps and grinds to _Cherry, Cherry_. 

She puts it down nice and flat and tidy on the table, smoothing it out. And edges a little away from him, and picks up her drink.

Stuart sighs. It figures that he would miss the moment, miss his chance. For now anyhow. “So,” he says, and clears his throat, Adam's apple bobbing like a duck in a thunderstorm. “You and Sheldon...” 

Ooh, and Amy beams. “One of my favourite subjects! What would you like to know about Dr Sheldon Lee Cooper? I can tell you all about his fascinating current project, or alternatively his decisive _diktat_ regarding string theory versus loop quantum gravity. Also where he chooses to swing his authority and support in the crushed ice drink scandal: Slurpie versus Icee? Even his koala fixation has a whole world of human interest and eccentric fascination to offer!”

Nope. Stuart doesn't feel the need for a virtual museum tour on any of these subjects. Really only one thing grabs his interest on the subject of Sheldon Cooper. Even though he's gone to great lengths to ensure that Sheldon isn't going to view this date as encroaching on his territory, the alpha silverback gorilla of the CalTech physics department. “Is he your boyfriend?” he asks. It's maybe a little blunt, but this flirty little minuette they've got going is trying his patience.

He likes Amy. He hadn't even realised really, not before. He'd just been eager for a real live date with a real live girl, who wouldn't kick him in the crotch and spit on him if he looked at her. But he likes her.

He's killed the buzz for her with that question, though, clearly. Her face goes from alight and alive, the wide broad length of it shiny with the combo of caffeine and joyful Seventies easy listening and artwork dedicated to her fatal charms, to sullen and cast-down. Then her lips press together, all firm resolve and lemon-mango lipgloss borrowed from Penny. “Not yet,” she says, eyeballing Stuart with a very meaningful eyebrow-tilt. 

He's a little downcast himself, at the broadness of the hint, and the determination of it. “What, you're going to wear him down until he gives in? Because I've tried that approach before now, and I've had some interesting results from it. Really expensive results, what with not having health insurance, too.”

She looks at him a moment, fellow-feeling mixed in with amusement. “Well, if you thought sheer persistence was going to do the job, I'm not surprised. I'm a scientist, Stuart. I begin with a hypothesis, and I apply rational deduction, technique and quantitative methods to the available data. I modify experimental structure to adapt to the environment and experimental subject. Unsatisfactory results merely indicate that procedural modification may be required. Also, I'm a badass bitch, and I read _The Art of War_ twice a year.” 

Stuart's spirits sink a little. “So, you haven't given in,” he says. He can't imagine that resilience, although he admires it. He gave in... well, some time back, on the path that paves his route through life. His busted-up old Beetle is smoking gently some way back, abandoned on the side of the road. He's just a hobo, who's whistling an uncertain tune as he thumbs rides, and rummages through trashcans for abandoned nutrient sources that he won't have to fight any really determined raccoons or urban foxes for. Metaphorically. Well, metaphorically at the moment. Maybe literally at some imminent future date, if comic-book business doesn't pick up.

“Oh,” Amy says airily, “defeat is just another word for 'deep hypnosis techniques in need of fine-tuning'. And 'try a different psycho-affective oxytocin stimulant', maybe.” The little sideways screwing-up of her lips is just barely discernible as a smile. It seems fairly certain that she's kidding. Fairly.

Oh, he likes her. It's not good news for him, her fearless determination and enjoyment of the struggle, the war for the sake of love. But he likes it. Probably he looks and sounds a little wistful when he says, “I wish someone would feel that way about me.” His eyes are turned away, now. It's an admission that could be common to most of the human race. But it's still a vulnerable thing. To say it.


	2. now all i want, is a smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuart is a jealously protective dominant alpha male. Yeah, it's a surprise to him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Savage Garden quote. John Wyndham references. Bill Hicks reference. Star Trek reference.

'...a pumpkin latte with a dynamite lady,' Stuart finishes tapping out on his latest Facebook entry, as Amy argues at the counter about the specific heat, heat capacity and related cup volume of java made with ground and filtered fresh beans and whether pure extracted caffeine is a suitable pest-control agent for rats, given the irony that the little buggers like to nibble at the bean sacks. He thinks maybe Amy's gonna punch the guy with the face-fuzz if he doesn't concede her point, or at least give him a hostile write-up on his lab technique, customer service and ability to take criticism. She's breaking out the verbally-rendered end-notes, full journal references with page numbers and volume and everything, both AMA and CSE-style. From memory. It's more frightening than impressive, but it's impressive.

(Maybe he should have gone to MIT instead of Rhode Island School of Design. He's never thought of himself as having a kink for authoritative women before now. It's just come naturally: they're women, and he recognises their authority. He respects the chain of command. But he can imagine, now, working as Amy's lab-tech, scrubbing down the work-stations, cleaning out the primate cages, re-stocking the reagent bottles... maybe nude. If she added that to his bullet-pointed list of instructions, of course.

Oh, looka that, he's inappropriately alert and tumescently interested at the thought of being ordered around by and getting performance reviews from a bossy academic female with wing spectacles and rabbit teeth. But wouldn't anyone? His sketchpad comes in extremely handy at this moment: pressed down hard on his lap, as Amy comes over and starts discreetly swaying to _Savage Garden._ (Someone else's selection this time.) She holds out a hand to him, and says, “Dance with me,” softly. And Stuart's almost tempted. They're almost a real live meet-cute right here, dancing like nobody's watching. Even though for sure, _everybody will be watching._

Then he's saved, 'cause hairy barista-guy brings over his hamstery face-fuzz, and his important workmanlike apron, and a tray with their next drinks on it, Amy's round that she's blessedly insisted on paying for. Table service isn't exactly customary around these parts, and they both look at him a little fuddled – and on Amy's part, still a-swayin'. With a little jiggle of the hands and shoulders, that say more about her willingness to _be strong, to be faithful 'cause she's counting on a new beginning,_ rather than suggesting anything about whether this guy's followed her strict instructions and not fucked up their order.

He blushes a little under their stares, and sets down the tray fussily, wiping down the table at the same time. “Coconut frappé with extra ice-cream and vanilla syrup for the lady,” he says. Not a word about Stuart's second Americano, although it's right there on the tray. And he's facing Amy, with his back right to Stuart, who is also _right there._ Right there!

“I didn't order ice-cream with it. Or syrup,” Amy says, more sorrowful and puzzled than angry. It doesn't faze this asshole much, though.

“On the house,” he says, clearing his throat officiously. “As a signal of appreciation for some very useful technical advice. And brightening up my day with that smile. That's the one! Right there!”

(Amy does have a rather lovely smile. It doesn't matter a damn if she's pretty or not, when she smiles. It's not like Stuart hasn't noticed: he just hasn't quite got the smoothness of this smooth fuck, to be pointing it out like that, on someone else's date. On someone else's territory, too.)

Stuart would not class himself as a territory-defending alpha male with a snarling upper lip and threatening body language. Hence he's pretty surprised to discover himself leaping to his feet, and tapping this asshole on the shoulder. He'd worry more about what the fuck he's going to actually do about that, as Hairy Barista turns around. Except inspiration is driving him pretty fast and pretty far on current showing, so worrying seems pointless. 

It's all in the interpretation, anyhow. Even though he's standing up pretty close, even though he's tapping someone's shoulder like he's looking for trouble, the guy has an easy smile when he turns around slightly. “Oh, yeah, I brought your drink, too, buddy!” he says, and points at the Americano. Stuart guesses he just has that kind of a face. Like, _make time with my girl, buddy? Better watch out, or I'll ask you about my coffee order!_

He's saved from craven backing-down, though, or getting laughter in response to any tough-guy posturing. Because the other barista, who's working double-time at the register and looking frazzled, is evidently tired of covering for her hound-dogging co-worker, and yells over. “Little help here, Richmond! You know, when you've finished hitting on the customers and giving away the farm to the honeys!”

The guy hears his mistress's voice, it's pretty clear, and he walks away backwards, still smiling at Amy. “Enjoy, pretty lady! You know, you should do a 'science of coffee' channel on YouTube, I'd totally watch and learn!” he says, before ducking under the counter. And getting his head whopped by the girl, engulfed by a hundred coffee-hungry zombies. Just like he deserves. Stuart is still riled up, although he's happy to hand over ass-whuppin' duties to an unknown but intimidating caffeine-retail food-service professional. He's still standing there, tremblingly restless, as Amy slides back into the booth.

She's smiling. Of course she's smiling. Another moth to the flame, another hopeless devotee to the cult. Amy, the mysterious goddess, appearing only on high days and holidays in the temple clad in wispy clouds of semi-transparent fabric, surrounded by immortal flame. Does she collect little china hearts and break them with a tiny hammer, when she considers the destruction appropriate and earned, like Diana Brackley's lab-tech in _Trouble With Lichen_? (Stuart's a vintage sf buff. If you start trying to pontificate about correct botanical classification of triffids, then he will school you on care, cultivation, breeding and appropriate firearms for an invasion of walking tree-plants.) 

But Amy pats the retro vinyl of the booth seat, right next to her, and the unspoken invitation – the implicit command – is more than Stuart can withstand. He lets go of the impulse to go drag the asshole across the counter, and beat him senseless into the cutesy gingham formica, and he sits down next to Amy. 

He doesn't have to struggle that hard. She's sucking coconut frappe through a straw, but eye contact is established, and she smiles around the straw. Then she finishes, slurping a little, and hands him the long spoon, pushes the glass over towards him. “I don't really care for ice-cream that much,” she explains. “Or any very cold food. It has associations with traumatic Scandinavian post-grad exchanges, and being locked in the biological sample freezer with a temporarily tumescent howler monkey.”

Well, Stuart can't really afford to turn down calories, calcium or romantic gestures, so he nods, and accepts gratefully. The dessert is colder than any Icee – or Slurpee – and covered with old-skool hundreds and thousands, and it's sweet as love. Sweet as love, not that he's in a position to make an expert call on the simile. 

“Wasn't that sweet of him?” she says, leaning into Stuart, so that her hair brushes against his cheek, where he can feel he has a sticky little smear of vanilla-coconut ice. And he closes his eyes momentarily. He can feel the simultaneous crashing together of two waves: the need for tact and understatement, and the creation of a memory that's going to haunt him like madeleines, like first thoughts and last words. Vanilla and coconut and a girl's hair, they will be this, now, always.

“Sweet,” Stuart agrees, nodding. He could, after all, just be talking about ice-cream. Then a little bitching is irresistible. “Although I think he was looking for more than just a tip,” he says, and prisses his mouth up primly as he scoops up the last of the coconut delight. 

“Really? You think so?” Amy asks, smacking his shoulder a little vigorously, halfway between disapproval and delight. Bless the girl, it doesn't take much to please her.

“Yeah, and I was going to get in there and bust his ass over it,” Stuart says firmly. He knows she won't believe him, knows they understand each other: but she claps her hands and giggles just the same. Then she touches the streak of ice-cream on his cheek: and dips in and kisses him there, quick enough that he can't flinch or fear it. 

And he smiles. Funny how you can go from cursed to charmed in the space of a kiss. “So you like guys fighting over you?” he teases. “You think Sheldon'll be willing to throw down, get a little dust on his lab-coat, if I challenge him for his lady?”

Amy's eyes flicker away, and the smile's a little absent for a moment, like she's thinking about it. “He'd challenge you to a comic-book knowledge throw-down,” she corrects him, and he knows it's true. “If it was necessary: but why would it be necessary, to fight like a couple of rutting gorillas vying for the favour of a lady gorilla?” 

(Stuart gets an involuntary visual of Amy as a lady gorilla, in bright pastel accessories, a jewelled bobby-pin, clutch-bag, ankle-socks. Any troop alpha would be willing to beat his rival's brains out on a rock to win her favour, for sure.) 

“We're not exclusive,” Amy says, her eyes down. “We're not even dating. He isn't my boyfriend.”

And though that suits Stuart fine, he doesn't want to see Amy dispirited, he finds. It doesn't suit her martial heart, her undefeated spirit. “Yet,” he reminds her, stirring his Americano like he's not paying attention. He feels her perk up, though. 

“That's true,” she says, thoughtful.

“And here you are,” he points out, “on a date with a boy.” He isn't going to see thirty again, Stuart, or not except through a rearview mirror. But he's on a date, and that qualifies him as a boy, credentials him temporarily with youth and hope, he reckons. “Who thinks you're pretty awesome.” Slick, the way he slips that one in quick! But he carries on hurriedly. “And he's getting grief from another asshole who also clearly thinks you're pretty awesome – ” and he nods over to the counter, where Goatee Goat-Boy is mired under with shouting demanding asshole customers, _good_ – “and if he doesn't take care I'm going to have to kick his ass to make sure he doesn't try to muscle in on the date-style action here!”

He grins, because he knows it'll make her smile, and he's right, it does. That feeling, when you're just _clicking_ , and you're pushing each other's buttons, and you recognise things in someone you didn't know you knew to recognise, _this_ moment, this right here, and you know how to say the right thing and what it is and how to make her smile – 

“In fact,” he concludes, “Amy Farrah Fowler, you have _three_ guys on the go, hanging on a string. You foxy minx, you!” He flicks her shoulder, teasing, and he'd try a 'you go, girl!' or a z-snap, except eighteen months or eight years out of date isn't going to fly here, and he doesn't care enough to know what the current terminology for that approach would be. 

Giggles bubble up, and he's done pretty good anyhow. Simple works fine. She calms down a little though, clears her throat, and looks at him, faux-solemn. “Well, you know, a study into poly-dating approaches in the modern academic female, contrasted with group sexual activity of primates in native conditions, might be interesting. You know, purely in the service of science.”

“Is that what they're calling it now?” Stuart asks. The little booth they're in is hived off from the rest of the seating. They're up close, they've been unarguably flirting. There's a warm glow between them, the feeling of a smile without smiling, because suddenly, seriousness. Seriousness, looking into each other's eyes, tingles. This is a lot more than Stuart was bargaining for, when he dared himself into angling for this date.

“You think it might work out that way, sometime?” he asks. His Americano is stone-cold. His Americano is not the point, here, though. “You, Sheldon... some other guy too? You'd consider going poly, as a... permanent thing?” Boy, way to tread carefully. He feels like one of the river-stones he's treading on might prove to be an alligator any moment. “How would Sheldon feel about that?”

Silence hums around them, a force-field walling off noise. Amy stares at him. The last time he got this much concentrated attention from a woman, she was cussing him out as the mall guards hauled her away, after he'd called them on her ass for shop-lifting. Amy's visibly thinking about his question, about actions and results and consequences. “Sheldon would... given that he would be my _boyfriend_ at such a juncture, he would... assess any proposed polyamorous arrangement. For functionality, and improved end-user satisfaction, and interference with his regular schedule. He would probably create a detailed bi-monthly survey with editions for participants and observers.” She stops a moment. Intrigue, that's what's going on, in the delicate little interplay of thoughts and emotions on her large mobile face: lip twitches and eyebrow lifts and a delicate little twerk of that hook/retrousse schnozzle. “He would _definitely_ create a Boyfriend/Girlfriend/Boyfriend PolyAmorous Arrangement Agreement. With about two-hundred clauses and sub-clauses, for eventualities like influenzal hand-holding obligations, and Valentine's Day etiquette, and 'Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty' trio singing-in-the-round practice sessions...”

“He wouldn't be jealous?” This seems like the main point, to Stuart.

It gets a little pouty lip-chewing out of Amy, thoughtful. (Thoughtful. Maybe titillated too.) “Sheldon would feel satisfaction, at mastering unproductive messy human emotions in the name of the greater good, and overall increased benefit to a grateful humankind, in microcosm. The needs of the many, outweighing the homicidal fury of the few, you see.” She takes a hold of the long sundae spoon that he's abandoned, stirs it around the dregs at the bottom of the long glass cup. With a trace of melted ice-cream to show for it, she licks the end of the spoon, a trace reminder of sweetness.

“There are aspects – intimacies, demands, rewards – of an active heterosexual, sexual, romantic relationship that Sheldon finds to be overly onerous, or time-consuming, or simply not in his wheelhouse. The orderly and formalized inclusion of a third party, to more fully satisfy the emotional requirements and recreational desires of a girlfriend unit, would be simply... rational. I think, given careful and logical discussion, Sheldon would highly favour such an arrangement.”

It's oh, such a long way from a romantic declaration. Why does Stuart's heart go _bumpity-bump_ in his puny chest, as he leans back a little in the cubicle, toys with his coffee-cup, and looks at her solemnly, as she looks solemnly back at him? The universe, he can hear the music of the cosmos. The score is coming to a grand finale, an ecstatic crescendo of chords as they hit this peak, this crucial moment in their story. If it was _Star Wars_ , he'd be Han Solo, and the Death Star would be toast, sucker, _toast._ (Amy as Leia? Maybe, but he figures her in a more nerdy and tomboy role: tech-expert pilot, maybe. No glamour-hog, dedicated to the cause, taking out a few stormtroopers as she goes down in a blaze of glory.) 

“What about you, Amy?” he asks. “How would you feel about such an... arrangement?”

She licks the spoon one last time, regretting ice-cream surrendered perhaps. Then she smiles at him. “I think, maybe it could be wonderful.”

“Me too,” Stuart agrees. “I think it could be wonderful too.”


End file.
